Empire Of The Undead

by Ahimsa Kerp

  His tone, deadly earnest, seemed to have an effect on the men. Even Polpum seemed hesitant.

  “This is not true," said the elder alchemist, his long beard wagging as he spoke. "I have seen nothing in the signs. Just this morning, I read the signs of the pine marten’s guts and I saw nothing of import. You are surely mistaken.”

  “What if I’m not?” Zuste asked quietly.

  “Bah. Even if they do come, we will defeat them. Long ago, the Greeks came. We did not fare so badly.”

  “The Romans are not the Greeks. The Greeks invented reason,” Diurpaneus interjected, speaking slowly. “They were civilized.”

  Zuste added, “The Romans are purely unreasonable---once they start marching, there is no end to the hordes that follow. They overrun with sheer numbers and uncontrollable greed.”

  “Be that as it may,” countered Natopurus. “The Romans came under their great war chief, Caesar, in the times of our grandfather’s grandfathers. We met them at Histria and we won. Dacia is too strong for even the Romans. Their current leaders are no Caesar, despite their titles.”

  “Much has changed,” Zuste said. “The signs have spoken. If you will not listen to the gods, I cannot aid you, but I ask that you give thought to my words. Train more warriors. Build more walls. Prepare for what is to come.”

  The portly alchemist heard his own words and wondered if he was mad. The signs had been so clear—yet, why had no one else seen the same? Was he deluded? Were they right to belittle his arguments? No, surely it was better, even if he was wrong, to serve as a voice of caution.

  Polpum stood up. There was menace in his bearing. “I say we prepare the Dacian way. By eliminating cowards and those who disagree with us.” His head snapped, whip-like, to their leader. “Diurpaneus, why is this sniveling fool here? Let me kill him.”

  The leader shrugged. “I can’t stop you from challenging him, but this is a festival. It would be ill to slay one of our own, for little cause.”

  Polpum drew his dirk. It was long and impossibly sharp and glinted shards of firelight. Zuste could not look away from it. He had carried no weapons with him, and could not use one if he had. This would be no fight at all, but a murder. He could smell his own blood in the air. Another premonition? Or just pure fear?

  Zuste sat down, ignoring Polpum. “Stand up and face me, you cur.” This was followed by a host of other threats. Zuste stared past him, into the fire. A few of the others were smiling. That was bad—should Polpum become an object of ridicule, he could slay Zuste outright to salvage his pride. Indeed, the big warrior was advancing upon him, glimmering threat in hand.

  The portly alchemist rose and acknowledged his foe at last.

  “You are a greater warrior than me. But maybe I’ll get lucky.” He lunged toward Polpum, dragging his right foot into his left. Falling heavily to the ground, he scraped his elbow and bruised his knee on one of the warm stones. It was a small price to pay, if it worked, and indeed, he was rewarded by laughter from all around him.

  Zuste looked up, and saw Polpum sheathe his knife. The warrior leaned down on one knee, pressing his face close to Zuste’s. “Your prank may have saved you,” he said. “I will not kill you, fat fool, who cowers on the ground like a small child, but someday you must fight. You must learn to stand up and face your opponents. If you are correct, if the Romans are coming, we all must fight. You cannot trick fate forever.”

  He moved back to the fire and sat down, indicating that he was done. The Sarmatian beside him nodded begrudgingly. Zuste could sense the hostile stare of Natopurus amidst the jolly faces of the drunken warriors.

  “We have heard words of wisdom tonight, truly. I am of the Tyragetae, and I say we shall be wary,” Diurpaneus said. “I swear on the soul of my father, Scorilus, we shall prepare for the Romans, but not by cringing behind walls. No, we shall take the war to them. ”

  The men erupted in jubilation. Diurpaneus lifted his head to the sky and howled, long and full. The men followed him, loping like wolves and howling at the uncaring, cold night sky. Zuste's mouth was filled with ashes.

  CHAPTER VI

  Rome: 83 CE, Summer

  The Emperor squeaked out a long fart, and though Rufus pretended not to hear it, the smell hit him almost instantly. It smelled of red wine and festering garlic. He ignored the stench as best he could while he watched Domitian lift an ornate cloth, a mappa, high in his hand. A vast silence of expectation encased the world.

  The cloth fell. As soon as it left his hand, the great carceres sprung open and the charioteers sprang forward. This was a minor, early morning contest and there were but four racers, each in smaller, two-horse chariots called bigae. Later, in the more important races, experienced drivers would race in four-horse chariots with up to twelve teams racing at a time.

  The track was in fact wide enough to hold a dozen four-horse chariots. It was split down the middle by the spina, a raised median decorated with statues of the gods. Domitian’s deceased brother, the Divine Titus, was honored with one of the newest statues on the spina. There were seven large metal dolphins, and one would dip as each lap finished. On either end of the spina was a meta, an ornate column which allowed the chariots to take turns without losing speed. It was there, at the turns that the most spectacular crashes occurred.

  Rufus and Domitian watched the chariot races from the Emperor’s plush couch, or pulvinar, at the Circus Maximus, between the Aventine and the Palatine Hills. They had walked here straight from the palace through Imperial tunnels that Rufus had helped design and build. The Circus was, true to its name, a grand building. It could not hold so many people as the Flavian Amphitheater, but a hundred and fifty thousand would fit in with room to spare. For important matches, spectators would arrive the night before. The pleb seats were free, of course, but they had no shade and those in the seats risked frequent brawls and the occasional orgy. A better bet was the shaded seats for Senators. They entailed less brawling and more gambling. They were also the best place in Rome to pick up a randy aristocratic woman because the games incited their lust. Thinking of that soft flesh surrounding him, Rufus almost regretted his current position. On the other hand, his place here was a singular honor, elevating him above all other Senators in Rome.

  Rufus was honored to be the only Senator in the pulvinar, but of course, they were not alone. His own aide, Plautius, was sitting at the back. The man was dependable and competent—a rare combination. Domitian's guards stood at the back with him; there were more at the sides of the Imperial box, and many more lined the tunnel between the palace and here. They were led by Cornelius Fuscus, prefect of the Praetorian Guards. Since his long-ago return to Rome in 71, Domitian had been close with the Praetorian Guard.

  More pleasantly, there were several nude slaves, each from different parts of the Empire, who stood behind them. They were there to serve wine, food, or any other need that might arise. If he was sure it was not an insult to request their services before the Emperor himself had done so, Rufus would have tried to take them up on some of their more exotic functions.

  He examined the Emperor more carefully. It had been a decade since Rufus had returned to Rome, and those ten years had not been kind to Domitian. He had gone from young man to heir to Emperor and it had cost him. Most of his hair was gone now, and his belly protruded largely from his otherwise thin frame. His eyes were bloodshot and a haunted look was etched permanently on his face. He looked twice his thirty-two years. Rufus couldn’t blame him. Watching what power had done to his once friend had been frightening.

  The Empire was stretched. Roman legions warred in Gaul, in Caledonia, and along the Danube. They were running out of soldiers. Last year, Domitian had been forced to create an entire new legion. While popular amongst the people and especially the army, the Senators resented Domitian and repeatedly clashed with him. In addition to political and military concerns, Domitian’s only son had died two years before. Soon after the boy’s death, he’d been deified. There were posters of the god-ch
ild throughout Rome—recently, coins had started to bear the boy’s likeness. It must have been scarce consolation, as Domitian had lost his son and his heir. Until he had another child, the Flavian dynasty ended with him.

  “I’ve finished your arch,” Rufus said. “It will be precisely one-third the size as that we erected for your brother.” Two years ago, Rufus had built a triple arch honoring Titus at the east end of the circus.

  There was a long pause. He could smell the perfume of the women behind him, and the faintest remainder of Domitian's gas. Below them, the racers sped through their laps. As they completed each lap, one of the metal dolphins on the spina lowered. When none were left raised, the race would be over.

  “That is good. My brother,” Domitian said, “he knew what he wanted. It’s a pity he’s not here.”

  Rufus thought carefully about what to say next. Titus had died less than two years into his reign, just after the inaugural games had finished. Many had suspected Domitian of having played a role in his brother’s demise. Rufus doubted that—Domitian seemed too regretful, too unwilling to embrace the Empire as his plaything. His first act as Emperor had been to deify his brother, but it made for uncomfortable conversation whenever Titus' name was mentioned.

  “We have in addition completed the new gladiator barracks near the Flavian amphitheater, and next to the bathhouses built by your divine brother,” Rufus said, wincing. Titus seemed constantly to come up. “I have diverted and built new aqueducts and there will be plenty of water for the men. The connecting tunnels are complete and one can enter the fighting grounds directly from the training grounds.”

  “Well done,” Domitian said.

  Rufus smiled to himself, hiding the bitterness he felt. The Emperor had become a tight-lipped man. He found himself missing the energetic, gangly youth who had appeared in his chambers all those years ago.

  Around them, the plebs roared their approval. They were cheering not for a particular racer, but for an accident. Furor circensis, their mad fury was called, and it was just getting started. The stands were not even full for the early morning ientaculum matches. Rufus glanced to the racers below. Domitian's pulvinar naturally had the best view possible. It looked right over the track, though of course, both a wire screen and a canal as long as two men separated the racers from the spectators.

  The front two racers, red and blue, were going around the meta. They all had the reins wrapped around their waist, to keep them in their baskets. The white racer leaned toward the green. Metal glinted in his hand. The racers carried curved knives called falx. Nominally, they were to be used to cut themselves free from their reins when they crashed. Far more often, however, they drew close enough to their opponent to slash at him. The green racer was ready for the slow slash, and his chariot swung wide.

  The white racer was momentarily overextended, but he was able to right himself. He would have, rather, had that moment not been precisely when an eager fan hurled a curse tablet at him. The curse tablets were a way for the fans to get involved, and it was well known that the driver with the fewest curse tablets often won. To make sure, however, the amulets were often studded with nails or shrapnel.

  The tablet hit the white driver right on the head. He wore a helmet, but the force of it, coupled with his off-balance footing, caused him to stumble and fall out the back of his chariot. Many of the crowd roared their appreciation for this move. For those close enough, the prone body of the racer made for a tempting target, and a barrage of curse tablets hit the stunned driver before he could rise. Finally, he stumbled away, hopping for a side door.

  A different part of the crowd cheered as the racers entered the sixth lap, of seven. A young Blue racer was ahead, but the Red was fast. His chariot was clearly going faster than the one before him. Behind them, the Green driver was trying hard to catch up, but it did not look hopeful. With every second, the Red racer was closing in on the Blue.

  “Have you placed money on this match?” Domitian asked suddenly. Rufus saw that the man’s cheeks had turned red with excitement.

  “No, Caesar. I only returned this morning.”

  “I'm told the Blue driver is the favorite.”

  “The red driver looks to catch up quickly,” Rufus said.

  “Would you care to wager on red?” Domitian asked.

  “With you? Of course, and the stakes…” Rufus asked. Domitian said nothing, only turned back to watch the final quarter lap.

  It was disappointing in the end. The Blue racer took the turn very tightly and sped away, and the Red could not catch him, though he leaned so close to his horse that he seemed to disappear. The winner cruised over the finish line leisurely. Men and women wearing blue scarves were overjoyed, hugging strangers and screaming themselves hoarse. Those wearing red, green, or white, were obviously less jubilant.

  That race would have enriched some of the people, Rufus thought. Slaves would buy their freedom. Men could clear long-owed debts. Conversely, some would have been broken by that result. One race could lead to a lifetime of servitude. Rufus tried to imagine the level of desperation necessary to risk it all. Had he been that desperate during his exile? He imagined not.

  “You have won, Caesar. The blue racer was as good as you said,” Rufus stated.

  “He will lose at the Greek Kalends! Never! He wasn’t threatened by these children. Though blue is not a noble color. I should like to see new colors. Purple perhaps. Or Gold. Those would make for finer colors, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” Rufus answered.

  “As to our wager,” the Emperor said, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  “I am, as always, your servant. I can gift you one of my wines. Perhaps a Falnerian.”

  “Exile,” Domitian said.

  Rufus felt his heart cease beating. Realization dawned belatedly. He’d displeased the Emperor, and this race was the way for him to show his disapproval.

  Domitian watched his reaction carefully. “You’ve turned white. Was exile so bad?” he asked.

  “It was not unbearable, though I confess I am not eager to revisit it,” Rufus said. “If I have displeased—”

  “I am exiling Domitia,” the Emperor said. “You have lost our wager, and I want to send her to Gyaros. You did much to increase its beauty, and it will comfort her.”

  Rufus was shocked. When their son had been deified, Domitia had been honored with the title Augusta. She should have been above reproach.

  “Caesar,” he said, his throat feeling dry. Something unpleasant had just occurred to him. “I have of course left stewards to maintain the property. It looks the same as ever, I have no doubt, but it’s no place for the Augusta. It’s a simple, humble place.” In truth, it was a horrible barren place devoid of humanity. “Send her to Kythnos instead. It is nearby, but not as dire a home.”

  A silence longer than any stretched before them. Rufus followed the Emperor’s glance down as the next race set up. Teams of two would race with quadrigae, or four horse chariots. The setup bored him. From the corner of his eye, he could see a slave woman’s naked breasts. They were overly big, with small pink nipples.

  “That is exactly what the Augusta needs,” Domitian said. “I have struggled with this idea for a long time. It is the right thing to do. It is what … my father would have done.”

  “There will be talk,” Rufus said. “I am loathe to broach such unpleasant slanders, but … there are rumors…concerning Julia Flavia.”

  “Julia?” Domitian asked. “My niece. What do the rumors speak of?”

  “They say, I think I’ve heard them say … that,” Rufus stammered. His normal bluntness was not appropriate here.

  “That I’m fucking my niece? I do have an informant network, Rufus. I know what they say.”

  “I thought as much,” Rufus said, regaining some composure. It felt like he was talking to his old friend again. “With ears as big as yours, I’d hope you could hear rumors that oft-repeated.”

  Domitian stared at him. Rufus regr
etted his quip, but the Emperor started laughing.

  “Gratias, Rufus,” the Emperor said.

  “Why?”

  “You have no idea how refreshing it is to speak to someone who’s not constantly trying to curry favor. Now, try to remember everything you can about exile. I want you to talk to Domitia into leaving. As soon as possible.” He rose, and Rufus followed suit.

  On their way back to the palace, Rufus realized Domitian had never answered the question about his niece.

  CHAPTER VII

  Dacia: 83 CE, Autumn

  "Go," she said, kissing him on the lips, "go and kill them all." Her voice sounded flat to her, as though the vast roiling emotions in her were too profound to be expressed by something as mundane as her voice.

  He winked at her, gratitude lifting the corners of his lips into a smile. "They'll never even catch us," he said, "those clumsy turtle-fuckers. By Zalmoxis, we will kill so many of them that they will never come back." His voice was solid, dependable, a platform of bravery she could cling to, and yet she could not drown her fear.

  Somehow sensing her worry, he had grasped her hand then, his fingers warm and reassuring. “Rowanna, I'll come back for you, and for Dapyx.”

  Her lips moved together in an attempt at a smile. “I know you will.”

  He was three steps out the door when she saw it.

  “Brasus,” she called after him. Plucking the great hard-wood shaft from the wall, she chased after him.

  “My spear,” he said, smiling in admonishment of his own forgetfulness, “what would my father have said?”

  “He would have cuffed you on the head for trying to fight the Romans without the spear of his father, and his father before him,” Rowanna said. The weapon was as much heirloom as tool of war, and it had a lineage greater than either of them.